


Knowing

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Protective Greg, Psychological Trauma, Stress Baking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 04:52:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17237777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: For anyone else, being kidnapped would be alarming, but Greg Lestrade tends to look forward to it. At least he usually does. But when the status quo is disrupted, Greg finds himself dealing with more than he'd imagined.





	Knowing

**Author's Note:**

> Somehow this h/c managed to incorporate a Ron Weasley quote, a nod to the Great Baking Debate of 2018 and a BAMF Anthea. Don't ask me, I don't know how it happened either.  
> I hope you enjoy it. <3

“You need to come with us, Mr. Lestrade.”

They were clearly Mycroft’s people, which didn’t worry Greg; he knew the drill by now. Standing, he checked his pockets – wallet-phone-keys – and followed them out of his office.

“Sorry Sally, meeting’s come up,” he said, nodding at the stone-faced pair walking immediately behind him.

She rolled her eyes as she always did but nodded back. This was a common enough occurrence for her to know the drill: he’d be back when he was back, and no amount of questioning would give her any information.

Even when Greg returned to work he never gave her anything more than, “Just a meeting, Sal. Can’t say any more than that,” much to her chagrin.

Today Greg was frankly relieved to be kidnapped for a while. He had no idea where they were heading, of course, or how long it would take, but it was better than another long night of paperwork and pressing Forensics for results. “I’ll probably be home before breakfast tomorrow,” was as certain as he could be. By now he’d learned to live with the uncertainty.

At least he’d be seeing Mycroft today. Christ, what a sad statement about his life: he was looking forward to being kidnapped to an unknown location by a man who he could only tentatively call friend. A man who had never shown the least interest in him romantically. The most Greg could say was they’d had moments, shared looks or a smirk that said their minds ran along the same track, however briefly. The warmth and amusement in Mycroft’s eyes was borderline, and in those seconds, Greg wondered if perhaps the curl of interest settling in his belly was reciprocated.

But Mycroft never said, so Greg never asked. They’d progressed from the damp warehouses of their early association to Mycroft’s office and now sometimes his club; a glass of Scotch or a beer was usually offered and received gladly. If anyone asked, Greg would answer that they had an understanding, strictly professional. Privately, he considered Mycroft closer than some of his footy mates; certainly he was more frank in many of his opinions with the quiet, well-dressed man than the rabble with whom he ran around the pitch on a semi-regular basis.

“Right here, Mr. Lestrade,” one of his minders said, and he blinked, not having realised how deeply his thoughts had dragged him in. The car had moved through London as he brooded, and apparently they had now arrived...somewhere.

“Thanks,” Greg said, stepping out.

The car pulled away as he frowned. Back to dank warehouses again? He turned, having no idea where they were - where he was. The car had glided away and he was standing in a puddle of fading light, the weak beam flickering from a fluorescent bulb metres above at the tin roof. He could see the sky through the windows but they were too high to cast any real light down here on the floor.

“Mycroft?” he called, uncertain for the first time. In all the times they’d met, even in places like this, Mycroft had always been waiting for him as soon as he stepped out of the car. Despite the odd situation, Greg didn’t feel the prickle of awareness that so often preceded something bad. Whatever was going on, he had learned Mycroft always had a reason.

“Mr. Lestrade.” The voice was familiar, but not that he expected.

“Anthea?” he asked, and she stepped out of the shadows nearby. “Um, hi?” He knew it sounded ridiculous but he was surprised to see her. This was not how things usually ran. That prickle he’d just noted as absent began to make itself known, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Not good.

“I need you to come with me.” She didn’t smile, and with a start Greg realised not only was her Blackberry nowhere to be seen, she had a set of car keys in her hand. They jingled a little as she fidgeted, and the sound - an audible clue to her nerves – was the detail to flare his alarm higher.

“What’s going on?” Greg asked. He could feel his body preparing for something; a slow trickle of adrenalin, heartrate increasing, breathing a little heavier.

Anthea hesitated. “He’s asking for you.”

Greg blinked, noting the lack of names. “Okay.”

His mind raced. If Anthea was here, it meant Mycroft couldn’t come. Something was wrong. Greg examined the mounting sense of unease still threading up and down his spine, and to his alarm, it was linked not to Anthea’s appearance here, but Mycroft’s absence.

If he was hurt, or sick, he would send her. Anxious as an ill Mycroft made him, her presence calmed him a little, and he held onto it tight, breathing as steadily as his pounding heart would allow.

“Okay,” Greg repeated, moving towards her, stopping a few steps away. “What do I do?”

***

Ten minutes later, a sense of foreboding had settled heavy and cold in Greg’s stomach. He’d climbed into Anthea’s car, ducking under the blanket in the back as instructed. His breathing sounded loud; he was controlling it, smelling the clean wool and light perfume of a car well maintained and rarely used. There had been no conversation beyond her instructions to him. Greg knew anything more would simply be a waste of time.

They might not have a lot of time. Mycroft might not have a lot of time.

The possibility sent a shiver down him, raking cold fingers of dread along his shoulders. Greg still had no idea what he was doing. Sally would be at her desk, grouching about him skipping out on work for some mysterious meeting. The sun would still be sinking behind the buildings, his coffee might still be warm on his desk, and he was wondering if Mycroft was still alive.

“We’re here,” Anthea’s voice came from the front seat.

With a jolt Greg realised the car had stopped. He fought his way out from under the blanket, struggling to sit up in an uncoordinated way that would generally pull a tiny smirk from Anthea. Today, her face was grave, and under her makeup he could see the exhaustion.

“Before I take you upstairs, you need to know some things.” Anthea was twisting around in her seat to see him so Greg shifted along the seat, easing the angle on her neck. “Firstly, today is not happening. You are not at Mr. Holmes’ private car park and you certainly have never been permitted entry into his residence.”

“Of course,” Greg said. Her seriousness was making him more and more anxious; he wanted to know what was going on so he could start to deal with it. His body was beginning to insist he do something with the adrenalin fuelled energy he was now harbouring. He fought impatience, trusting Anthea’s strategy. To a point, at least.

“I apologise for the clandestine meeting today. As few people as possible can know about this situation. It is far beyond most people’s security clearance.”

“Including me,” Greg said wryly.

“Including me,” Anthea shot back.

“Christ,” Greg muttered. “Seriously, can you just tell me what’s going on?”

Anthea took a deep breath before speaking.

“The details are still uncertain. Mr. Holmes has been travelling in countries with whom Her Majesty’s subjects have had recent...disagreements. Certain individuals evidently decided that Mycroft was to be made an example of. As far as we can ascertain, a driver was bribed, or threatened, and Mycroft’s private car took an unknown detour.”

Greg noticed Anthea called him Mycroft, a stupid thing for his brain to cling to. _Out of all the information, that’s what you’re going to single out? The use of his first name by a close colleague? Concentrate, Greg._

“He was missing for fifteen hours.”

“Christ,” Greg whispered again. Fear coiled in his gut. “Is that...I mean, it doesn’t sound that long, compared to...” he trailed off. What was he comparing it to? Movies, probably.

“They used their time well,” Anthea said. “We secured Mr. Holmes as soon as possible, of course, and returned him to London yesterday morning.”

“Yesterday morning?” Greg repeated. “Is he...” he swallowed, not wanting to hear the damage. Those beautiful fingers...and his eyes...

“Mr. Holmes has not been harmed in any physical way we can ascertain,” Anthea said. The stress in her voice was subtle but definite. “He was found standing on a street corner close to his club, and submitted to a full medical examination both in the city of this incident and back in London.”

“And he’s...fine?” Greg repeated. A wave of relief came over him and he closed his eyes, swallowing deeply. The fear in his belly untwisted itself and dissolved, leaving him feeling loose and a little shaky.

“But...why am I here, then?”

“Physically he has not been harmed,” Anthea repeated. She took a deep breath. “He has not been himself since we returned, and I am...concerned.”

“And you called me?” Greg asked, a little confused. ‘Hang on, did you say he’d been asking for me?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Anthea replied evasively.

“Just tell me.” Greg heard his voice crack and he cursed himself. Not knowing was far worse, surely, than knowing whatever it was that Anthea kept alluding to.

“Mr. Holmes slept on the flight home. He has slept many of the hours since we returned. This in itself is unusual, though not perhaps cause for alarm. As he slept on the plane, Mycroft said only one thing, repeated over and over. The hours he has slept in London have been the same, at his office and again here in his home.”

Greg waited, the dull burn in his chest telling him he was not breathing as he waited for her to reveal the truth.

“It was your name, Greg. He is asking for you in his sleep.”

“My name? Are you sure?” Greg felt stupid even asking, but why...surely Mycroft knew other people called Greg? Why would he ask for him, specifically?

As Greg wondered, Anthea sighed. “Greg.” She was using his name now, he registered dimly. “I am intimately acquainted with every person Mycroft sees socially, both publicly and privately.” Greg waited expectantly. “Outside of family, that numbers three people.”

“Three?” Greg asked. He still felt stupid asking her to repeat herself, but it was necessary.

“John and Rosamund Watson, though that relationship is of course complex and could be considered family.”

“And me,” Greg finished for her.

“And you,” she confirmed. “It must be you, there are no other people he associates with at even the most perfunctory level with that name.”

“So I’m supposed to just tell him you heard him talking in his sleep then?” Greg asked. This was getting more and more confusing.

“No.” Anthea’s voice was firm. “We still have no idea what happened during the hours he was absent.” She stopped speaking but the implication was clear.

“What, and I’m here to find out?”

The idea made him angrier than he expected it would.

When Anthea did not answer him, Greg blinked, counting backwards in his head. Answering without thinking might get him kicked out of this completely, and his worry as the implication of the situation sunk in was only growing.

When he reached one, he spoke carefully. “I will help Mycroft any way I can. If that gets you what you want,” he waited while she nodded, “ _and_ he agrees for me to tell you, fine. But I’m acting in his best interests, not yours or the British bloody Government’s. And I’m not going behind his back.”

Anthea looked at him levelly for a long time. Greg could feel his heart pounding as he wondered if he’d overplayed his hand.

Finally she nodded again. “I will deny ever saying this,” she said quietly, “but that attitude is exactly why I believed bringing you here was the best course of action for Mycroft.”

Greg nodded stiffly, not entirely believing her but accepting that she was obviously worried about Mycroft. Where he ranked in her priorities was not clear, but they could be allies, at least. He had trusted her before, but it would remain to be seen where exactly her loyalties lay right now,

“Can I see him now?” Greg asked.

Anthea unlocked the doors, following him out. They entered a lift, where she keyed in a code and scanned her fingerprint. Glancing at Greg, she said, “Office on the left, sitting room on the right, bedrooms upstairs.”

The doors opened and he stepped out of the lift without her. “What you’re not...” he started to ask, but she simply looked at him as the door closed between them.

Right.

He was standing in Mycroft’s kitchen, then.

“Hello?” he called tentatively. It would not do to sneak up on the man, given whatever it was he’d gone through in the last couple of days. “Mycroft? It’s Greg.” He paused. “Anthea brought me...”

Greg stopped as a figure appeared in the door of the sitting room. It was Mycroft, but not as Greg had ever seen him.

He was in pyjamas, for a start; pale blue cotton, buttoned up perfectly, collar lying flat against his collarbones. For all the sleep Anthea claimed he had enjoyed over that last two days, Mycroft looked like he could do with a kip. Not tired exactly; there were no bags under his eyes or redness in the startled gaze that was now sitting on Greg. He wasn’t moving particularly slowly, yet Greg knew he wasn’t right.

Something in the eyes, he thought, studying them; they were as guarded as ever, a little defensive (natural given his state of dress), but there was an echo of something else.

_Sadness? Resignation, maybe._

His shoulders were less square, spine a little less straight; Greg wondered if these details would be noticed by anyone else. Most people saw the suit, he knew, and the polite smile, and looked no further. Greg always looked further where Mycroft was concerned. Today, he was worried at what he’d seen, especially when coupled with what Anthea had told him.

_Have to take it slow. Don’t want to frighten him. Or, God forbid, get him thinking I’m working for the Government against him._

“Hi,” Greg said finally.

Mycroft looked thunderstruck at the sound of his voice. “Gregory...” he whispered, and Greg was startled to see him grasp at the doorframe.

“Funny coincidence today,” Greg said, shrugging off his jacket. “I was thinking about you, wondering how things were going, and a couple of fellows came to escort me to you. Perfect timing, hey?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied automatically. He frowned. “I did not send for you...”

“Anthea,” Greg said. “I think she’s worried about you. Had the bright idea I might be able to help.”

Mycroft nodded, a slight frown on his face. “I’m not...” he stopped, then started again, something Greg had never heard him do. “I don’t want to...”

_Another unfinished sentence. Christ, he is in a bad way._

“Look, cards on the table,” Greg said. “I don’t give a fuck what the British Government wants.” Mycroft blinked. “I am here for one reason, and that is to see how you are, and to do whatever I might be able to do to help you feel better.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft’s words were almost soundless, his mouth moving normally, the polite phrase automatic.

“Anthea gave me a general idea of what happened. Jesus, Mycroft, the idea of...” Greg trailed off. He swallowed, forcing himself to speak. “I was worried about you. About how you’re coping. You can tell me as much or as little as you want. We can have tea and scones or play cards or watch a movie or I can stay while you sleep, if you want.” Greg stopped short of offering anything more intimate – surely it was enough of a stretch to offer to watch someone sleep?

_Bit creepy actually, Lestrade. Dial it back maybe._

“Very well,” Mycroft said, looking flustered. “If you’ll excuse me a moment.” He stepped towards his office, before turning to Greg. “A cup of tea would be...most welcome.”

“Sure,” Greg replied. Well that went okay. _At least Mycroft didn’t kick you out._ He began searching the cupboards for tea as Mycroft disappeared into his office, the door closing behind him.

There was barely a thing to eat in his cupboards, Greg was appalled to see. He made up a tea tray and boiled the kettle, grinning as he made a pot of English Breakfast and left the second pot empty for the moment. Mycroft had more kinds of tea than Greg even knew existed, and he didn’t want to make the wrong sort.

When the door did not open after ten minutes, Greg grew restless. He opened the cupboard again, staring at the contents until the urge became too strong.

“Fuck it,” he muttered to himself, grabbing an armload of supplies. Within moments the oven was on, flour scattered over the bench; it felt like baking with his Granny. Finding a glass just the right size – who knew if Mycroft even owned proper baking equipment – cutting the scones, nestling each beside the other before the tray slid into the oven.

A quick clean up and Greg was done. He rescued the English Breakfast pot – just – dumping the teabags in the sink before checking on the scones. The tray was just coming out of the oven, Greg’s anxious face breaking into a smile as the tall pastries emerged, when he heard the office door open.

Mycroft had added a dressing gown over his pyjamas, the tie perfectly even where it fell from his waist. The small detail made Greg’s heart ache – he was so precise, even when greeting an unannounced guest in his pyjamas.

“You made...scones?” Mycroft asked, peering at the tray.

“You don’t have a thing to eat,” Greg replied, placing the oven tray on the stovetop and turning off the oven. “Had to improvise. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” Mycroft replied automatically. Hesitantly he stepped into the kitchen, eyeing Greg before opening the fridge. He emerged with a pot of jam. “I have no cream, I’m afraid,” Mycroft said. “There is butter, however?”

“Perfect,” Greg said. “I’ll boil the kettle again, didn’t know what kind you’d want.”

His own pot was sure to be cooler than ideal but it didn’t matter.

They moved in silence around each other, Greg taking the scones into the sitting room without asking. Sitting at the table would be too much like an interview, he thought. Mycroft hesitated before following with the tea tray, butter dish and jam tucked into one side.

“Thank you for baking,” Mycroft said when they were settled on the sofa. He smoothed one hand down the front of his dressing gown, obviously self-conscious of his state of undress.

“No problem,” Greg replied. “I like your place, by the way.” He waved his hand around the comfortable sitting room. “I’m guessing you chose a lot of the decorative stuff?”

“What gives you that impression?” Mycroft asked warily. He sliced a scone open, adding the barest layer of jam Greg had ever seen, placing his knife just so on the plate, perfectly perpendicular to the edge of the coffee table.

Greg’s heart ached for him. He was still so formal, eyes not right as he studied Greg covertly. He looked curled in, as though preparing to defend himself.

_It’s just me, Greg. I’m here to protect you, sweetheart, not harm you._

In answer to the question, Greg shrugged. “It just feels like you,” he said finally. “Not impersonal like a hotel or like a decorator would do.”

An eyebrow flickered at Greg’s words. “Indeed I did have considerable input into the choices for this flat,” Mycroft said slowly. “I find blues and greys to be calming.”

“Something you’re looking for after a hard day at work?” Greg half joked. He winced, remembering Mycroft’s most recent day ‘at work’, and bit into a scone to cover his embarrassment.

“Generally, yes,” Mycroft replied. To Greg’s relief he didn’t react to the clumsy faux pas.

They ate and drank in silence for a few moments - Greg drinking his English Breakfast, Mycroft the camomile he’d selected. The silence between them was more strained than usual, and Greg hoped Mycroft wasn’t anticipating some kind of dishonest attempt to extract information from him. Greg had no idea what to say, but he figured Mycroft could make the next decision; he’d baked without permission, after all. The phrasing of his transgression in his mind pulled his mouth up at one corner.

He saw Mycroft’s eyes flicker to him, then away without comment, not wanting to pry, Greg assumed. Or worried he was laughing at his host.

“I was just thinking,” Greg said, “that I’d been Baking Without Permission.” He gave the term particular emphasis. “Wondered if it’s more of a class two misdemeanour or an on-the-spot fine kind of offence.”

He watched as Mycroft considered his words. It was just a silly play on words, Greg told himself. Mycroft probably didn’t bother with such trivialities. Especially not now...

“I believe an on-the-spot fine would be appropriate,” Mycroft said, “though if you were to consume the evidence it would be difficult to prove guilt.”

The dry assessment made Greg laugh, a delighted chuckle around his mouthful of generously jammed and buttered scone. Mycroft’s expression, a raised eyebrow as he bit delicately into his own scone, sent amusement spiralling through Greg. Amusement and something more, if he was to be honest with himself. Carefully, he suppressed the ‘more’ and allowed the amusement to show on his face as he surveyed the considerable number of scones remaining.

“I’m not sure I can eat the rest of these before I have to book myself,” Greg said. “It’s a hard life, being a copper.”

“A copper who Bakes Without Permission,” Mycroft retorted with the slightest flash of amusement.

_There you are, darlin’. Starting to relax with me._

“Well yeah,” Greg replied. He leaned forward. “Perhaps you could let me off with a warning this time?”

“That’s not up to me, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft replied. ‘I am not an officer of the law.”

“True,” Greg said. “I’ll just have to be lenient on myself, I suppose. Make sure I never commit such a transgression again.”

Mycroft looked as though he wanted to say something, but as Greg watched, the amusement faded from his eyes as though he’d just remembered something sobering.

“It’s at your discretion, of course,” Mycroft said quietly. He finished his scone and picked up his teacup, sipping before cradling it protectively in his hands, avoiding Greg’s gaze. Once again, he was the slightly uncomfortable man Greg had seen when he walked in, as though their silly conversation had not taken place.

Greg watched the change, emotion spilling though him - bewilderment, frustration, sadness. He had no idea what had made Mycroft revert when they’d been making some headway, sort of; at least Mycroft had been talking to him. He’d been amused at the silly conversation, too, Greg could tell. Now it was back to square one.

“Well, damning evidence or no, I can’t eat another bite,” Greg said, draining his cup and placing it back on the tray. “These’ll keep for a while, at least.”

He’d been hoping for some kind of conversation - even the polite, distant version - but Mycroft was well and truly back inside his shell at this point. Greg collected up the tea things - including the cup Mycroft returned to his saucer - and carefully took the tray back to the kitchen.

“Leave it,” Mycroft said as Greg started putting milk and jam back in the fridge. “My housekeeper will deal with it this evening.”

“You sure?” Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded, though he was avoiding Greg’s eyes again.

Time to push just a little, Greg decided. Just...test the waters.

“Can I suggest something?” Greg asked carefully. He waited for Mycroft to consider the question. Relief flooded him when a careful nod dipped Mycroft’s head.

“I know Anthea said you’ve slept a lot recently, but maybe we can do something relaxing. Something you find relaxing.” Greg shrugged. “Not all sleep’s that relaxing, and to be honest you look a bit on edge.”

Another carefully considered silence.

Mycroft’s voice was small when he framed the words, “Such as?”

“Well, what do you do to relax? To unwind?”

Grey eyes blinked at Greg in confusion.

_Too many choices, Greg. Make it simpler._

“Okay. How about...would you prefer to listen to music or watch a movie?”

“Music,” Mycroft replied, quiet but immediate.

“Okay. Great.” Greg moved back toward the sitting room, waiting patiently for Mycroft to follow him. “Where’s the stereo?”

Mycroft pointed to a cabinet of smooth dark wood. Greg opened it, relieved the set up was an easy one to navigate. Rather than give Mycroft another thing to decide - the man looked like he was about to fall over from the few decisions he’d had to make already - Greg selected the first playlist. Given he lived alone the playlist already cued would be something Mycroft liked, right?

To Greg’s surprise what began was not classical or jazz but a piano followed by a soulful female voice, powerful and aching. He listened for a moment, entranced by the smooth sound.

“This okay?” he asked, finally turning around.

Mycroft was standing exactly where Greg had left him, a look of acute embarrassment on his face. Fuck. Well there was no ignoring it, Greg thought.

“I didn’t peg you for an Alicia Keys fan,” he said, “but I can change it if you like?”

Mycroft shook his head, and as Greg stepped closer he saw the unshed tears making grey eyes glossy.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Are you sure this is okay?”

Mycroft nodded again, otherwise completely still. He looked miserable, Greg though despairingly.

“You look like you need a hug,” Greg said quietly. “I happen to have a good one here if you’d like it.”

The song was well into the first chorus before Mycroft nodded. It was so minute Greg almost missed it in the bowed head and hunched shoulders.

_Christ, he’s worried I don’t want to go through with it._

Greg’s heart ached for Mycroft. He wanted to offer reassurance but his words felt completely inadequate.

_Show him, you dolt._

Smiling gently, Greg stepped into Mycroft’s space. He could feel heat radiating and figured Mycroft didn’t really need his dressing gown for warmth – the delicate skin of his neck was pink, as were his ears. Shifting closer, Greg slid his arms around the rigid form.

Mycroft didn’t move.

Greg could feel his body trembling, lungs expanding in the kind of deep slow breaths designed to stop you panicking. He pressed his palms flat against Mycroft’s spine, breathing intentionally, feeling the deep shudder that began in Mycroft work through his own body. Slowly, achingly so, Mycroft bowed his head, resting inwards on the white shirted shoulder.

Closing his eyes, Greg held Mycroft close as the music filled the air. He could feel his shirt sticking to his skin where Mycroft’s face pressed to his collarbone. It was jolting, knowing he was being trusted not only to enter Mycroft’s home – that trust came from Anthea, at least initially – but to stand here, holding Mycroft as he cried in his pyjamas.

How many people have even seen these pyjamas? Greg wondered, absently rubbing long slow circles with his palms. The fabric was smooth of course, expensive and conforming, even under his rough hands.

_Imagine how good they’d feel against soft skin._

Christ, where had that come from? Greg had often wondered if there was anyone who comforted Mycroft. The look in his eye during some of their meetings, when Mycroft was unable to expand on his recent travel, or the details of a conversation or document... Greg recognised that look. He’d worn it often enough, seen it more commonly on young officers. It meant _I need to connect to someone_. The need could be met in lots of ways; a hug, a fuck, a vent in the pub at a stretch, but alone, the feeling settled inside you like sediment deposits in a cave, growing incrementally with every un-met moment of need until it was overwhelming. Pushing out your own emotions, filling the inside with rock, hard and unyielding.

Greg knew it was like recognising like. Since Anita left – after he finally told her to go – the rock had started building in him again, too. The edges of it were creeping in and the reality frightened him more than he would admit.

Old worn out coppers like him didn’t rank too highly on the dating scene. Greg could feel himself drifting at the moment, and he reckoned that was why he looked forward to seeing Mycroft so much. It was easy, undemanding, and yet when he smiled goodbye and the grey eyes warmed in return, Greg felt the rock weaken just a little inside.

Absently he noticed the music shift, from the soulful piano to the jazz standards he had first expected. Leaving his somewhat melancholy thoughts, Greg took careful stock.

As his mind wandered, Mycroft had relaxed, his frame no longer rigid. Greg felt a warm weight around his waist; Mycroft’s arms were settled there. It was a far more natural cuddle, their bodies slipping closer, unnoticed by Greg until now. Mycroft’s breathing had evened out, matching Greg’s rhythm, their bodies swaying unconsciously with the music.

They were dancing, Greg realised with a slow smile. That perfect slow sway that only ever happened when you weren’t trying too hard. Contentedly, he allowed his cheek to rest on Mycroft’s shoulder, breathing across the side of his neck.

_I hope this is helping him. Lord knows it’s doing the world of good for me._

More songs began and ended, piano, strings and horns; Greg dimly recognised some voices, though his mind was too attuned to Mycroft to try and find names. Throughout, he and Mycroft swayed together.

The thought that this was better than doing paperwork crossed Greg’s mind at some point during a duet, and he hummed, briefly pulling Mycroft a little closer, readjusting his hands, shifting his face a little closer to the comforting scent. With his eyes closed, Greg’s sense of distance was compromised, and his nose brushed the side of Mycroft’s neck.

As though he’d been shot, Mycroft jerked, his whole body convulsing as the contact. Protectively, Greg pulled him close, eyes snapping open. Before he could speak (apologise?) Greg registered something else, pressing into his lower belly.

Mycroft was hard. Solidly, achingly hard against Greg’s body.

A second after Mycroft, Greg froze. They stood there for a long moment, still breathing together while Greg’s mind offered him several possibilities, and one important fact.

_It’s just the warm body. Not personal. Might have been a while for him. Who knows what (who) he was thinking about._

_Oh, and by the way, you’re hard too._

Fuck. Greg shifted minutely, realising his mind was right. He’d been so caught up in how nice it was to just hold someone he hadn’t consciously noticed the raging hard on he was now sporting.

And pressing into Mycroft’s thigh.

Judging by the sharp intake of breath at his apparently not so subtle movement, Mycroft was acutely aware of the situation. Which made Greg even less sure about what he should do.

Carefully, he loosened his arms, easing back from Mycroft’s body. Giving them both a little space.

“Gregory…”

At the strain in Mycroft’s voice, Greg paused. He sounded as though he was pleading. Asking for Greg to stay?

Hesitantly, Greg shifted closer, re-establishing their hug, though he kept his hips a discreet distance back this time.

Mycroft’s arms returned immediately, his face pressing again into the dampness of Greg’s shirt.

“Mycroft,” Greg whispered. The music was still playing, and his brain had made one of the curious leaps of which Sherlock seemed to think him incapable.

A deep breath, unsteady, before Mycroft answered. “Yes?”

“This playlist is...” Greg swallowed. How to phrase it? “The songs are all...”

“Romance,” Mycroft supplied.

“I think I was looking for ‘sad’,” Greg whispered. “About...wanting someone. A specific someone.” He swallowed again. When had his throat become so dry? “About not wanting to be lonely.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Mycroft’s voice was quiet, barely above the music.

Greg tightened his arms a little, letting just a trickle of hope in. His intuition was telling him this was why Mycroft wanted him here. This was why Mycroft had been dreaming about him.

Christ, how long had that been going on? As long as Greg had been holding back his own awareness? Longer?

“Are you lonely, Mycroft?”

No reply. Mycroft’s fists bunched into Greg’s shirt at the small of his back, untucking it. The agony of his speechlessness was pressing his face into Greg’s shoulder. He whined, an agonised sound that rent Greg’s heart.

 _Don’t make me say it,_ he silently pleaded. _Say it first. Tell me I’m not imagining it._

The words were as clear in his head as if Mycroft had voiced them. Perhaps, Greg thought, stroking Mycroft’s back again, the image of Mycroft as the emotionless civil servant was upside down. Instead of a man with no emotion, what if he felt so deeply his emotions overwhelmed him? Locking them away to save himself from the desperation. The idea made Greg’s heart crack once again.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Greg said quietly.

His words made Mycroft’s breath hitch, the second of pause like a freeze frame before the torrent was released.

The hands in his shirt twisted and the dampness at his shoulder expanded. Greg felt waves of air curl past his collar as Mycroft shuddered, pressing his tears into Greg’s shoulder. His heart heaved as Mycroft wept. Holding back his helplessness, concentrating on cradling Mycroft gently, supporting him with soft murmurs, one hand tracing slow circles through the dressing gown shaping Mycroft’s curved spine.

It was all Greg could do not to pull him close and kiss him into oblivion. Much as he ached to do that, Mycroft needed support right now and pushing himself on the man wouldn’t help matters.

So Greg stood, still and sturdy, cradling Mycroft, keeping him close. He didn’t notice when the gentle whispers began, the stream of quiet reassurances Mycroft might not even be able to hear over his shaking breath and presumably pounding pulse. Greg kept them up, knowing as Mycroft’s sobs subsided there would be a point at which his mind would register the flow of words.

“I’m here, I’ve got you, Mycroft...let it go, I’m here, you’re safe now. It’s okay, you’re at home...”

The repetition flowed on until Mycroft gave a last sigh and straightened. He reached for a handkerchief, blowing his nose and pressing the fabric to his eyes.

Greg watched in silence, hoping his empathy was not being mistaken for pity. He could see Mycroft avoiding his eyes, embarrassment clear in his reddened skin defensively raised shoulders.

“Hey,” Greg said quietly, one hand lifting Mycroft chin a little, bringing his eyes up to meet Greg’s.

“I ruined your shirt,” Mycroft said quietly, one hand vaguely indicating the wet shoulder.

“Doesn’t matter,” Greg replied. “Not ruined, I’ll chuck it in the wash and it’ll be fine.” The horrified look on Mycroft’s face was enough to make him grin. “None of my shirts are dry clean worthy,” he said. “Please don’t tell me that’s a surprise to you.”

“An impossible question,” Mycroft replied, sounding enough like his usual self that Greg’s heart eased.

“Rhetorical,” Greg murmured. His eyes were drawn to the twitch of Mycroft’s mouth, his thumb running slowly over the unshaven chin directly below.

Mycroft shivered.

Greg paused, eyes rising again, heart skipping a best when he saw Mycroft’s eyes locked on Greg’s lips instead of his eyes. Carefully, his shifted his thumb again, rubbing back the other way, the very tip skirting the edge of Mycroft’s lower lip.

Another shiver, this time with the tiniest moan Greg had ever heard.

More certain now, but not quite believing it, Greg eased his thumb inwards, feeling his breath hitch as Mycroft’s jaw sagged. The moisture on the pad of his thumb was like touching sparks; the sensation swirled through his blood.

_Christ, that’s hot._

The thought had barely passed through his mind before Mycroft’s lip shifted, pulling Greg’s thumb further in. He had a vague notion of the scrape of teeth over his fingerprint, warmth and pressure as Mycroft sucked...

“Jesus...” Greg found himself gasping. His heartrate had skyrocketed and he imagined he looked as wrecked as Mycroft now did – wide eyes, mouth sagging open, ragged breathing.

Before Mycroft could back away, Greg slipped his fingers around Mycroft’s jaw and replaced his thumb with his mouth. The kiss was a little messy, Greg parting his lips to meet Mycroft’s and getting the angle slightly wrong; they both over corrected to fix it and suddenly Greg found himself well and truly snogging Mycroft. Or being snogged, he couldn’t tell. There were definite tongues, and lips, and hot breaths and noises, lots of noises that ramped up the arousal now searing his veins.

“Mycroft...” he found himself panting, holding onto what was probably Mycroft’s hip with one hand and definitely the back of his head with the other. He thought there might have been an interrogatory noise in return, but he couldn’t be sure, with the kissing noises reverberating through him.

Christ, was this really happening? The shy Mycroft he’d met earlier was gone, replaced by this enthusiastic version, now kissing down Greg’s neck with abandon. His noises were addictive, his pitched little whines close to desperate. Nobody had wanted Greg like this for a long time, had seemed quite so...

_Desperate._

Was he desperate? There was a frantic edge to it, as though they couldn’t stop even for a moment...it didn’t feel right. Something was off.

“Mycroft...” Greg pulled gently away, pressing on Mycroft’s shoulder and his hip, trying to put a little distance between them. Trying to figure out what was happening.

“Gregory…” Mycroft’s voice was pleading, his hands still moving over Greg, pulling him closer. “Please…”

“Mycroft, wait,” Greg tried. “Just…what’s going on?”

As though Greg had thrown cold water over him, Mycroft froze. His breathing was audible, harsh in the silence at the end of the playlist, and Greg listened carefully, hoping he wasn’t hyperventilating. Slowly, his fingers released the handfuls of Greg’s shirt, smoothing the fabric.

Greg could feel him trembling.

When he made to step back Greg held on, keeping him close. He worried that if Mycroft stepped away the barriers would go back up and he’d never be let in again. _Please. Trust me with this._

“Don’t go,” Greg whispered. “I just…are you okay?” He ducked his head, trying to see Mycroft’s face, but it remained lowered. Hiding.

An indrawn breath, shaky and deep, was all the answer he received for the moment.

Greg didn’t want to push. This was delicate; he’d dealt with victims of abuse before, too many times. People responded to trauma in all sorts of ways, but experience had taught Greg to work slowly with them. It had taught him patience. He stood, hands resting on Mycroft’s back, breathing deliberately and slowly. When Mycroft’s breathing gradually slowed to match, Greg was relieved.

Another deep breath, this one far steadier. Greg hesitated. _We can’t stay here all day._ Carefully, he relaxed his arms, hoping Mycroft wouldn’t bolt.

To his relief, Mycroft took a single, careful step back, but he didn’t run.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said quietly. He was still looking at the floor; Greg couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the man look so fragile. _Vulnerable. Christ, what did they do to you?_

“Are you…what can I do?” Greg asked quietly. He hoped he wasn’t pressing too hard, but this was so uncharacteristic, and he was worried. Stuff Anthea and whomever wanted to know what had happened; he needed to know Mycroft was okay. Especially after what just happened between them.

_God, I hope he wasn’t just reaching for a warm body._

“I…” Mycroft started. He cleared his throat. His hands lay on Greg’s chest, keeping their connection, pressing nervously against the still damp fabric. “I have had a difficult period recently,” he said, the words stiff and proper.

Greg’s heart thumped hard. Mycroft always reached for the comfort of formality when he was stressed. Was he girding himself to speak about what had happened?

“I assume Anthea filled you in on the relevant details,” Mycroft said quietly.

“As much as she knew,” Greg confirmed. He hesitated before adding, “I think she’s more worried about you than anything else.”

“I’m not sure her personal concern warrants bringing you here,” Mycroft said. It lacked the censure Greg expected; instead surprise threaded through the words. Did he really not know how much Anthea worried about him?

“I’m pretty sure the official reason I’m here has more to do with national security and less with how Anthea feels,” Greg said. “Unofficially, Anthea and I are worried about you.”

“‘Anthea and I’?” Mycroft repeated. Greg could see his brow wrinkle as he processed the phrase.

“Yes,” Greg said, realising with a flash of insight where this conversation was heading. “We both care, Mycroft.”

“You do?” Mycroft whispered.

“Yes,” Greg repeated. When Mycroft raised his eyes to meet Greg’s, they were so disbelieving Greg couldn’t help smiling. “It was me you were kissing a few minutes ago, remember?”

“So that wasn’t just…”

“Pity?” Greg finished the sentence Mycroft had left hanging.

“Yes,” Mycroft murmured.

“No,” Greg replied firmly. “It was not just pity.” He took a deep breath, making sure to hold Mycroft’s eyes. “I care about you a great deal, Mycroft.”

The disbelief strengthened, Mycroft’s eyes widening.

“As a….friend?”

_No._

“Well, yes,” Greg said, not wanting to freak him out, “if that’s what you want.”

“What is it you want?” Mycroft asked, and Greg wasn’t at all surprised he’d understood the subtext.

_You._

“You,” Greg replied.

“Surely not,” Mycroft said.

“I beg your pardon?” Greg replied, his eyebrows rising of their own accord.

“I simply mean…are you sure?”

“Well, yes,” Greg said. Was there an actual change in Mycroft’s expression? Greg waiting, watching the grey eyes shift. He might have been mistaken, but he thought the disbelief waned a little. “I’m not here for that, though. Mainly I’m worried about you. About how you’re coping with whatever happened.”

A definite change now. Apprehension, and a shadow of the calculating look he wore when considering something new.

“I have not spoken about the specifics,” Mycroft said.

“Yeah, I know,” Greg said. “Look, do you want to sit down?”

They returned to the sofa, Greg sitting sideways, one knee up on the cushion. He was careful to leave enough space for Mycroft to sit as he liked. _No pressure, sweetheart_.

Mycroft sat upright, though considerably closer to Greg than he might otherwise. With his new less guarded expression Greg was glad for the insight into his thought processes. There was an obvious struggle between his hunched shoulders – classic defensive attitude – and the naturally upright posture he habitually adopted.

Greg’s heart ached for him. _Brave._

“I believe my driver was compromised,” Mycroft said, his eyes determinedly on his knees. A little of his reserve had come back in the moments they’d taken to arrange themselves back on the sofa, but Greg could forgive him that. At least he was talking. _He trusts me, at least this much._

“My memories of that time are…fractured. I believe I was drugged,” Mycroft said. His hands were restless, smoothing over his knees, twisting together. Impulsively Greg reached out, twisting his own fingers in Mycroft’s, anchoring them.

“My main recollection is of a voice. Male, generic London accent. Amused. It was always amused.”

“London accent?” Greg repeated. His mind raced.

“A mark of how poorly my mind was functioning that I can give you no more details. I suspect the accent was not genuine, however I can give you no more details.”

“It’s fine,” Greg soothed. Nobody he knew would be involved in this. It happened God-only-knew-where, anyway. Well, God and Mycroft Holmes. He wondered if Anthea knew. A stab of jealousy, but he brushed it aside. _Not important._

Mycroft breathed deeply for a few moments before continuing. “Along with the voice came an…emotion. Loss,” he whispered. “Despair. Helplessness.”

“Not things you’re used to,” Greg murmured. _Christ._

“No,” Mycroft replied quietly.

“Was it…do you remember what they were saying?” Greg asked carefully.

“Not specific words. The message, however…the message was clear. And the visions…”

“Visions?”

“They must have been false, I knew it, there was no way it was real, and yet…” A full body shudder wracked him, and Greg watched as he closed his eyes, pressing against the fear. “I believe the drugs created the visions.”

“Do you…can you tell me anything about what you saw?” The question was worded carefully, asking for as much or as little as Mycroft was able to give.

Mycroft’s face twisted, frowning and clearing, mouth pressed closed as though he might cry.

Greg waited, knowing this part, having spent too many hours with people as they struggled to put the horrors of their experience into words for him. The discomfort was different this time, the personal edge slicing into him as he watched Mycroft struggle to shape a description.

“Take your time,” he said quietly. “As much as you need.”

_At least this time I can mean it. No pressure to get an investigation going._

“I saw…faces. People I knew, in pain. Alone.” A deep ragged breath. “Because of me.” A long silence. “The voice was quite clear on that matter. My…presence in…that place was reason enough to seek out…certain people. To hurt them repeatedly. Irreversibly. Because of me, because of my…me.”

The words were pain personified. Greg could see the self-loathing, feel the clench of his fingers as Mycroft’s considerable intellect fought the baser belief of his own failings.

_Change the focus._

“You say people…anyone in particular?”

Mycroft nodded.

“People you care about.” It was a question hiding as a statement. Helping, he hoped.

“Yes,” Mycroft whispered.

“Sherlock.”

A nod.

“Anthea?”

A shake. _No._

“Me?” It was a bit of a long shot, but it might explain Mycroft’s reluctance to…

A nod. More frantic than the last, jerky and uncontrolled.

“Right,” Greg said, his heart too confused to know what to do. “But you know we weren’t there,” Greg said.

“Intellectually, yes,” Mycroft said, his voice tight. “The impression was…strong.”

“The drugs were strong,” Greg corrected. “And they lied. Sherlock is fine. I am fine. Neither of us was in…wherever you were.”

“I know,” Mycroft said. A single tear dropped, falling on Greg’s hand. “But intellectual awareness is not always enough.”

“You needed to see me.”

“I wanted to,” Mycroft corrected.

_You don’t want to be weak. To have needs._

“And that’s why you were dreaming about me,” Greg mused. His thumb was brushing the back of Mycroft’s hand, an absent-minded comfort for them both.

“Dreaming?” Mycroft said. His expression cleared. “Anthea.”

“Yeah,” Greg replied. “She was worried about you. Figured if you were saying my name, you might want me around.”

“I did,” Mycroft said. “I do.”

“Good,” Greg said. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’re…not?”

“Always the tone of surprise,” Greg said, smiling as Mycroft finally looked up at him. “I meant it when I said I want you.” He squeezed Mycroft’s hands. “I should be more specific. I want to help you. To know you better. Maybe to dance again to your romantic playlist.”

The slight smile on Mycroft’s face felt like he’d captured the sun.

“You don’t have anything else…anything to do?” Mycroft asked.

 _Anything more important_ , Greg read between the words.

“Nope,” Greg replied. “I’m fairly sure Anthea can sort out work for a little while.” Carefully, heart pounding in case he was presuming too much, he shifted, turning Mycroft so he could rest against Greg’s body. To his relief, the narrow shoulders slumped against his chest, arms wrapping around his waist until they were pressed together again.

“There is nothing more important right now than you,” Greg said, the sentimental words feeling right and a little sappy at the same time.

_Fuck it._

“I shall have to make a report to my superiors,” Mycroft whispered. “They may wish me to travel again to…that region.”

Greg snorted. “Pretty sure that’s not going to happen.”

Mycroft stilled, then Greg felt his head tilt up. “I beg your pardon?”

“Mycroft, do you want to go back to…there?”

The shudder was immediate, fingers gripping his shirt again. “It is not my preference, however-”

“Nope,” Greg said. Their connection was still new and largely untested, but on this he felt sure. “There’s no way. This was a warning. You have no idea who it was,” Mycroft opened his mouth to protest but Greg ignored it, “and even if you did, there’s no guarantee they’re not a small wheel in a bigger organisation. Do not tell me there are no other options.”

He gave Mycroft his best ‘try me’ look, the one reserved for smart-arsed new constables who needed to be taken down a notch. “I’d bet money Anthea’s on the same page as I am with this.”

“And if my superiors believe it is an acceptable risk?”

“Do _you_ think it’s an acceptable risk?” Greg shot back.

“No.” The answer came after a long searching look, in which Mycroft obviously found something in Greg’s eyes.

“Then tell them that,” Greg said.

“If only it was so simple.”

“It is,” Greg said. When Mycroft huffed a laugh against his chest, Greg went on, “look, if Sherlock’s even half right about how much power you have, I’d guess you have some level of say in where you go.”

“My superiors are not accustomed to having their instructions questioned.”

Greg thought about that for a second. “So it’s not about whether you can or not. It’s about whether you do. And I bet you don’t.”

“Not often,” Mycroft allowed.

“What would happen if you told them you weren’t comfortable going back?” Greg asked.

“Nothing good,” Mycroft replied wryly.

“Seriously,” Greg said. “In practical terms, I’m guessing they wouldn’t fire you.”

“No,” Mycroft replied. “I am less of a security risk in their employment than out of it.”

“Right,” Greg said, thinking. “So if nothing else changed, only that you didn’t travel there again…”

“It would be seen as a sign of capitulation,” Mycroft protested. “That their tactics had worked.” He sighed. “The British Government is not dictated to by terrorists.”

“Okay,” Greg said, “but surely there are ways to make it appear differently.” If there was one thing Greg knew, it was how the truth could be twisted to suit anyone’s needs.

“Gregory,” Mycroft said. He sat up, looking into Greg’s face. “I hope you are not suggesting anything untoward.”

Greg shrugged. “There are three possibilities I can see. One, you and your superiors make it seem that you would go back if you could, but they doubt your fitness to do it.”

“Such an appearance of weakness would be preyed upon by others,” Mycroft murmured. “The second idea?”

“Same plan, but without your superiors knowing.”

“Present a weakened front to them?” Mycroft asked.

“Yeah,” Greg said. “Make them think it’s their idea to keep you around here more.”

Mycroft hummed. “More likely to succeed, however not my preferred path. And your last idea?”

“Resign,” Greg said simply.

As he anticipated, Mycroft froze, then sat up further, looking at Greg hard. “Are you serious?”

“Yep,” Greg replied.

“Explain,” Mycroft said.

“Look, if you go in there and tell them you want to keep working but can’t go back, they’ll try to convince you to do it anyway, right?” Mycroft nodded. “So,” Greg continued, “if you just go right in and tell them you’re done, then their damage control will be about getting you to stay. Which gives you the bargaining chips, if you’re prepared to remain but only work domestically.”

Mycroft sat silently for several moments. “There’s no guarantee of success,” he said. “If they called my bluff, for example.”

“I thought you said you were less of a security risk as an employee,” Greg pointed out.

“True,” Mycroft conceded. “Such a move would lower my position considerably,” he said slowly.

“Does that matter?” Greg asked. When Mycroft looked to protest, he added, “I’m not trying to belittle your career. But if you have to balance your position at work with the peace of mind…” he trailed off.

“Of knowing you and Sherlock are safe,” Mycroft finished the thought for him.

“Well, safer,” Greg corrected with a slight grin. “You have met your brother, right?”

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied, his own slight smile a relief to the anxiety gnawing at Greg’s gut. _Is he actually considering doing this? Christ, I hope so._

“I would need to think about the ramifications of any decision I might make,” Mycroft said. His voice was quiet again, and for a moment Greg wondered if he would re-erect the walls, taking himself off to think alone. The idea tore at Greg’s heart – _we’ve come so far_ – until tentative hands slid around him, Mycroft leaning into his startled embrace once more.

“Perhaps you would stay?”

“Y-yeah,” Greg replied, relief flooding through him. “Of course.”

“I might try…I find myself quite tired,” Mycroft said tentatively.

“Let’s get you settled, then,” Greg said, smiling to himself. “I’ve had a couple of late ones, I could lie down with you if you like.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said. “Knowing you’re here…”

“Knowing is everything,” Greg said. “I understand.” He pulled Mycroft to his feet. “Upstairs?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied.

“We’ll talk in the morning,” Greg said. “Don’t need to make any decision until then.”

“And you’ll be there?” Mycroft asked, eyes vulnerable again.

“I will,” Greg replied, warmth coursing through him. “Wherever you are.”


End file.
